Salvation
by BleachedMerc
Summary: "Their hurting will be mended when you return to end it." Those cryptic words would become the gateway to a whole new war for Kingdom Hearts...


To the naked eye, it was just a normal journal. Within its pages, it held whole worlds. But at the very end, scrawled in barely legible text, the message was clear: someone needed saving. Minutes turned to hours as the mystery burgeoned. Chip and Dale poured all their knowledge of cryptanalysis into that one line of code.

Eventually, the big man himself came into the room desiring an update.

"We've used over 20 different ciphers. Nothing yet, sir," said Chip. Dark circles had formed under his eyes. Lack of sleep will do that to a guy.

"Used every substitution method we know," added Dale. "It's a tough nut to crack." He crushed some walnuts and chewed on them as he spoke. "We'll figure out the code eventually."

The big man wasn't impressed. Every second gone meant a new life was snuffed. Time was a luxury afforded to no one.

It was then that the big woman appeared, fruit basket in hand. She set it down and then it all made sense.

The code was broken.

"I got it! I got it!" Dale exclaimed. He hurriedly clacked away on his typewriter. "Blitzkrieg along the Somme at 04:00!"

"Are you sure?" said the big man.

"I am, sir. See, take this melon..." Dale grabbed a cantaloupe from the fruit basket. "Now multiply it by two, add two oranges and a pair of golden delicious, and BAM! We can connect this to that last message: 'Thank Namine.' Remember, she was the undercover fruit vendor the House dispatched to Somme at the start of the war!"

"...Who was compromised by the Nazis!" Chip added.

"That's right! See, they're using our own guys as a taunt!" Dale continued. "They knew if we somehow did manage to crack it, it would probably be too late!"

"And it would sting like the Dickens," said Chip.

"But how did you arrive at that time?" asked the big man.

"Simple," Dale smiled triumphantly. "Take the fruit vendor's shoe size multiplied by her waist size and divided by her chest size."

A lightbulb shined above the big man's head. "Of course! The melons, oranges, and apples!"

"Bingo."

"I'm taking this upstairs to the House. Good work, you two." The big man left, taking the big woman with him.

"But there's still one thing I don't understand..." Chip mused.

"What's that, Chip?"

Chip struck a match and lit his pipe. "Well," he said while taking a few puffs, "if the journal was so vital to the Nazis's communication circuit, why sell it at a cheap auction?"

"I'm glad you asked that, Chip," Dale replied as he fed a new ribbon into his typewriter. "You see, it's all about reparations and inflation. When the Treaty of Versailles ended The Great War, Germany was left broken and deeply indebted to the countries she ravaged. They were forced to demilitarize and pay back unreasonable sums of money to France and Britain. To meet the demand, the German Mint was forced to print more money than its fragile economy could process, thus driving up the inflation rates of their currency. As a result, most Germans became impoverished, and over time, resentment was fostered and channeled towards the well-to-do, namely, wealthy Jewish bankers."

Chip took another puff of his pipe and stroked his beard. "I see where you're going with this, Dale. You're saying that France and Britain are to blame for their own misfortunes. Had they been more humane, perhaps the Nazi Party never would have gained enough momentum to topple the German Democratic government."

"That's right, Chip."

"So selling the journal at the auction was..."

"A stupid oversight."

"Thought so."

Both Chip and Dale kicked back in their seats, enjoying some smokes, nuts, and fruits while sitting in front of the fireplace. When the fires started to subside, Chip went to fetch more kindling from outside, where he bumped into Roo. Chip handed him one of the sticks he intended to use on the fire—which turned out to be a Pooh stick—and Roo returned it promptly to the Fellowship of the Pooh.

The End.


End file.
